


better a dish of herbs

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Christmas Cookies, Christmas Fluff, Families of Choice, Gen, Humanstuck, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, References to Drugs, charitable doings, references to past abuse, shit let's be santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9046892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: If it's Christmas, tis the season to spread a little cheer and think about how good you got it.
There's not a point to this. It's just schmoop featuring charitable Juggalos, baking and some domestic stuff.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Homestuck Secret Santa 2016 fill for lorienleylines~
> 
> Merry Christmas, hope you like it.
> 
> -Zombie.

The kitchen is a ruination and a warning as you get to icing the last lot of cookies that had been cooling, leaning over the table and icing red and green onto the little running Hatchetmen. Ain't as though a motherfucker can't get his clean on later, at some point. Shit like cleaning was always there to be motherfucking done. It didn't ever stop - if you're gonna be fair and honest, you gotta say as it ain't ever really get started either. At least not with you. Your kitchen is the one place as you've always made a point of keeping clean and wholesome, on account of as you don't want to poison those of who you feed and keep dear to your heart.

"Hey, numbnuts. Christ, it looks like Santa and all twelve fucking reindeer puked tinsel and ornaments into every cranny of your apartment in here..."

And speaking of such...

"Hey, best friend." You smile a little as you hear the door open and slam, hear him come scuffing in to your kitchen which smells of sweet and spice, smile not quite wide enough to match your paint and more fond then mirthful. Of course you're painted. You're going out public in a few, as are you not? Out to spread some righteous motherfucking cheer to those as need some most sore. Karkat seats himself backwards over one of your kitchen chairs, resting his stubborn chin on top the cross-brace and looking at you as still you keep icing. Got a job to do, right? Got to do it proper. "What's up with your bad self?"

"What's up with me, what's up with you, asslick? Who the fuck do you think is going to eat all of this? You don't have that many friends. I should know, I introduced you to most of the ones you do have."

Yeah, you guess it could be a little surprising to walk into. You got pies, you got cake, you got cookies coming out every fucking side. It's all stacked high on every inch of counter. Little gingerbread houses and snowflakes and stars, got laughing mirthful faces and all kinds of sicknasty signs galore. You wrapped most shit up nice, in cellophane and ribbon, and Christmas spirit. Made in happiness, given in love. That's the best kind of miracle as you can think of to give at this time of year.

"Aww, Karbro. Maybe I'm just getting into the Christmas spirit, motherfucker."

Sometimes you can't resist giving him a little tease. He does snap straight for any bait you do throw, right and proper. Ain't as though you're the inciting type, usually, but you can be playful with those you trust. And you do trust this short and fiery brother sitting at your table with your body and your soul, you trust him to take care with everything that he's got. He's so fierce and warrior-like, got a heart like a bonfire raging in his chest and you love him for it in a way that's total pure. You don't tell him that. He'd get embarrassed and flustered - brother doesn't know his own worth.

"Gamzee. Fucking. Makara." You look up in query at that slow stated naming of your own good self, one thin eyebrow inching up your forehead and making white paint wrinkle. Damn. Maybe you didn't use enough shit to set it proper. "You don't waste food. Maybe you don't eat it as often as you should - at least some kind of fucking substance that isn't laced with marijuana, you idiotic fucking stoner - but you don't _waste food_." His voice softens and goes quiet at the end, and you know what he's thinking of. You shrug, irritable at the reminder of shit that's gone before and shake your head at him. That kind of memory ain't the lane you feel like strolling down right now. "Hey. Talk to me."

"Just good deeds, motherfucker." You put down your red piping bag and pick up the white one, start putting little lines of motion and exclamation onto the Hatchetmen cookies. You feel your eyebrows draw together with concentration, this shit ain't as easy as you make it look. "Gonna take all this shit down to the commune. Seems as though some righteous ninjas and ninjalettes as I've hooked up with here - you'll meet 'em sometime - they have some families who'd be missing out on Christmas this year under their watchful motherfucking oculars. A brother said he'd whip up some hellacious baked goods." You look up as he scoffs disbelieving, and your other eyebrow lifts this time. "Ain't need to get no worry on. This stuff is clean, bro. I don't feed the sicknasty Mary Jane to the unsuspecting and law abiding." You snort and go back to icing. "...everyone deserves a good Christmas."

"Well. Not _everyone_."

You poke him in the forehead in chastisement most gentle. "Let it go. A wicked brother most certainly motherfucking has." You look around at your apartment with a sense of contentment rising up in your cardiopump, and sure it's small and shitty. But it's your space and yours alone. You are most motherfucking comfortable in it. You have food in your cupboards, you don't get bruised or cut as often as you used to, you got friends. You are most motherfucking rich indeed, rich in all the ways that a brother should count. It's better than when it was and you were dangling from the lure of your sire's money, taking cash as love and abuse as something you deserved. You are doing so much motherfucking better now; Lalonde even says so when you meet up for tea and cookies so the both of you can chinwag. You so you can get some headshrinking as done for free, and her as to practice it. You think she does pretty good, for all she hasn't finished her degree yet. "It's cool, man. Don't get bad vibes in here to harsh up my motherfucking baking."

Cozying him on a little more to keep his mutters to a minimum, you get your baking done and the last of the cookies wrapped up before setting them into boxes so as you can carry them more easy without crushing them. Broken cookies'd taste as good as not broken ones, but this is _Christmas_. Everyone should get something proper and good on Christmas. People _should_ get something good. Broken cookies would just be a let down, real and true. 

"So I guess why you asked me over is to borrow my car to get all this gaily decorated bullshit folderol over to wherever it is you need to go?"

"Sure was, Karbro."

"You're such a fucking opportunist, you know that? Taking advantage of my good nature, wearing it down to the veriest fucking frayed _shred_ , Gamzee Makara, and this time of year is hard enough as it is. All that terrible fucking music being piped in everywhere, good fucking will to men on earth in-fucking-deed. If I wind up shrieking at some Salvation Army bellringer about their shitty practices to the queer community and general fucked up nature hovering under a thin fleece of supposed charity and _god damn shitguzzling Christian works_ because I get asked for a donation, I'm going to blame it on you..." Somewhere around that point, you tune it out and just keep going. It's just noise and barking to hide how soft and vulnerable a brother really is on the inside. Doesn't mean a thing, and you know it. It's more a reminder of how much a brother cares than anything else. If he didn't care, he wouldn't yell - but a brother sure does get his shout on about a lot of things.

He drives, you deliver the goods and go back to hang your arms over the car window as he rolls it down to look at you. He didn't come inside to meet any righteous ninjas, but that's ok. You know he ain't that down with the clown, but he tolerates you well enough. That's all you want to ask him for. It's cold, and you've got a nice thick scarf wrapped around your windchute to keep it good and protected. "You could come with," you suggest. "Little spawn do get so excited about company, is what a sister said to me inside."

"No, it's alright, do your...charitable clown bullshit. When should I come back and pick you up?"

"It's not that far, my brother, I was just planning on getting my walk on. Just didn't have grasping hands enough to hold onto all the boxes, was why I messaged at ya," you protest, knowing that he has his own holiday traditions and ways to get to. Vantas family went _all fucking out_. Well. Vantas-dad did. You're looking forward to coming over for the holiday meal next week, same way as you have since you were shorter and smaller, and just bundled up into their ways of doing things so you weren't alone as you had been before. Your family hadn't even noticed at your absence.

"It is fucking _cold_ , and you are not re-enacting the little match girl as a modern remake starring a Juggalo asshole instead of a virtuous orphan while I have a fucking car! This isn't that kind of piss weak Christmas story. What time?"

"Two hours, maybe, three? Let's say three, so a motherfucker ain't waiting around for a brother to get his ass in gear. Besides, wanna see the littles open their presents and shit."

"Alright, three hours. I'll just collect you from here, so for the love of _Christ_ , don't wander off. Just stay with your...friends or whatever." His voice is rough with angry affection, like he's always so surprised that he cares at all. You lean in and kiss him on the cheek to the tune of his outraged shouting and take the frenzied smacks he lays on your shoulders and arms with a laugh as he pushes you off. It's just playful like, puppy play. Nothing like hitting to hurt. You good and well motherfucking know the difference. "Oh my GOD! You disgustingly affectionate asshole!"

"See you later, Karbro."

"Get off me, fuck! People will think we're dating."

You stand back and wave him off as he backs up his little cherry red car, and you can still hear him cursing even though he's rolled up the window. He doesn't wave back, but you can see him looking at you and that's good enough. You gotta coax out that affection from a fierce little motherfucker, he only does it when he thinks it won't make him look too soft. Like someone's waiting out to shiv him, slide something right up between his ribs if he ever dared to show that he actually had a heart. It takes a moment to shake off that pure fondness that's in you about him and you make your way inside to chat with the few others of righteous heart and action who are inside the house, wrapping presents.

Shit goes off without a hitch and is a downright hellmirth-worthy, sicknasty, _utter bitchtittiest_ of situations. The best thing about it was watching the kids rip into the pile of presents once they'd been reassured that it actually all was for them and it was ok even if it wasn't quite Christmas yet. It's nice. It's so fucking nice. The food was gratefully received as well, not just the stuff for Christmas but the longer lasting stuff for after. Christmas might come once a year, but everyone should get to eat every day. You get to play with the kids and they're pretty fucking excited to have someone who's willing to act as a living jungle gym for them. There really isn't any snow to play in or nothing, but they get all their excitement the fuck out by running around the small playground that's near their grandma's place and climbing all over you and a couple of others of brothers and sisters who are willing to allow some rambunctious play. Leaving takes longer than it should because it's hard to pry away when people want you to stay, and when the party bus pulls up at the communal dwelling, Karkat's car is there waiting.

Jogging over to it, you let yourself into the passenger side, rubbing at your hands then holding them up to the vents as he throws the car into gear. After a moment, you remember to put on the seatbelt. _Before_ he gets all up in your case as he does. 

"So did all the little wombspawn enjoy their presents?"

"Hell yeah. They were so motherfucking excited, bro, it was the best thing, got all squealy and jumpy," you answer with a grin. The way he said it, like he wasn't invested in it at all. But if he didn't care, he wouldn't have asked. "Loved the cookies and shit too. Kids get the weirdest toys these days, yanno, like fuck, man. The little chica got like these...fuck, man. Like little fucking objects with eyes. Like a tube of pink motherfucking mouth paint even? And legs and hands and fuck. But she was real motherfucking pleased with them, so, a brother guesses that we got the right motherfucking shit." 

You shrug. As long as the kids were happy with what they got. Wasn't like they were for you, after all. And it had been a real miracle for them, acting in a Christmas miracle like that was the best motherfucking thing.

Still think the lipstick with arms and legs is motherfucking weird though.

You feel good. You're still feeling good when you get back to your apartment, letting the music Karkat's got playing on the radio wash over you. Every time a Christmas song comes on, he curses the writers, singers and instrumentalists to the nth generation and all of their works, but then you hear him humming along a little so he can't hate them all that motherfucking much. You ruffle your hand through his hair and he swats at you as you disorder the bit of combing that he has done to it. In all motherfucking fairness, you can't even say as you think you made it worse. His little mane is all spikes and roughness as it is.

"Would you fucking quit it? You act like you need to groom me every time we fucking meet up, your lack of personal space boundaries is god damn disconcerting sometimes, did you know that? At least when it comes to me. I've noticed you don't treat anyone else like your god damn personal armrest."

"What can a motherfucker say? You just the right height, best friend." The car pulls into the curb, and you hesitate before you get out. You wanna keep the good feeling you got going, and you hope he doesn't have anywhere to be. "Wanna come up? I kept some cookies back." Mostly the broken ones, if you're being motherfucking honest. But they aren't for presents. Just fine to eat with a friend over some tea or some shit like that. Personally, Faygo sounds good to you right now, you did some running around for motherfucking sure with the rugrats and now you're thirsty. From that and talking on, flapping your jaw as you do.

"...yeah, alright." You look over at him, smiling a little as he seems to be hesitating over saying something. "What types did you make?"

"Uh, gingerbread, shortbread, like, this cranberry kinda ones a motherfucker found on the net," you tick off on your fingers. The cranberry ones had been good too, even if the dried cranberries had been a little fucking expensive. It's cool. Most of the money for the baking had come from the commune anyway. "Chocolate chip. Sugar cookies. Peppermint and chocolate type ones, that you press down with a fork. Looks motherfucking cute. I got some of all of 'em left." The two of you get out of the car as you talk about the sweet treats you'd created and head up, stepping careful on the cold steps. They don't get iced, but they're a little wonky and shit and it would be no motherfucking fun to fall down them. Hospital is not a good place to spend the holidays. The warm air of the inside makes your cheeks tingle and you breathe out, enjoying it and enjoying even more the fact that you got a good friend coming in to spend some time with you. "Your dad want anything for the meal on the day?"

"...uh, pie, maybe? I'll ask him, and let you know."

"Sure, no rush on it, brother. Well. Maybe at least the day before. A brother be good, but he ain't no motherfucking wizard."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not going to call you five fucking minutes before I pick you up and ask you to whip up some monstrosity of a sugar and spice filled concoction on the fly. I'm not that much of a festering asshole." 

"Y'ain't really much of one at all." 

He scoffs at that, a dry little 'tch' of a spit as you both clamber up the piss-stained stairs to your apartment. It's Christmas maybe, and not Thanksgiving. But giving thanks and counting blessings is something maybe you should do more often, along with the mindfulness exercises a sharp-eyed sister gave you to practice. Telling Karkat how grateful you are for a sharp-tongued motherfucker makes him twitchy and all side-eye, so you don't. But you think it as you sit in your place, eating treats that you made, and watching him taste and try and give you awkward compliments on all of them. 

It's good.

There isn't a word as you've found that covers the way you feel about one Karkat Vantas or the way you're pretty sure he feels about you, but it's love in some way or another. Good enough, as far as a humble motherfucker like you figures.


End file.
